


All In The Posture

by NonbinaryNerdbot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Jon Has A Cane, My boy has chronic back pain and it makes him hunch, Sorry Not Sorry, Starts out cute then gets angsty, Tall Jon, Tall Martin, cross posted on tumblr, i'll fight you on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonbinaryNerdbot/pseuds/NonbinaryNerdbot
Summary: The Archive staff certainly is an interesting bunch. But something no one can seem to decide is who is the tallest?AKA Sasha and Tim's bickering becomes its own trauma.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 170





	All In The Posture

The Magnus Institute was a large one. Around 400 people working for it allowed for a great variety of people, both in chosen and predetermined appearances. The vague dress code allowed freedom for quite a bit of self expression, and the changing times meant that dyed hair and various styles for those all across the gender spectrum was allowed, and in some departments, encouraged. No quite a variety could be seen, however, than in the Archival staff. 

One would not expect much of a difference, seeing as the Archives was a very small department at all times, rarely exceeding 5 or 6 members at a time. However if one were to walk down, they would see such a variety as to imply that the 4 that worked down there weren’t even from the same city.

There was Sasha James, athletically built, dark skinned woman with curly chocolate hair that she often wore in a long fluffy wave down her back, colorful bows and headbands keeping the curls out of her eyes. Her bright green eyes sparkled with mischief, hidden behind her dark framed glasses, and her freckles and dimples gave you the impression that she would love nothing more than to cause some (overall harmless) trouble. She often wore practical dark wash jeans, boots of some variety, a light brown leather jacket she had inherited from her father, and simple cut blouses that lacked any frills, but nearly always coordinated with her headband or bow of the day. Her height varied based off the heels of the boots she wore, but she usually stood somewhere around 5’7”.

Often seen striding somewhere around her was Tim Stoker, a cocky, leanly muscled blond man, with a smile that made you either want to date him - or punch him in the face. His tanned skin made his blue eyes pop, and he often wore a very small amount of black eye liner, so thin you could hardly see it was there, but it only served to make his eyes seem bigger, and all the more enticing. His hair was cut in something akin to a crew cut, though not as short, and he occasionally colored the tips in a red or orange. He tended to lean a bit more casual in dress, opting for whatever comfortable blue jeans he grabbed that morning, and a plain colored t-shirt with an open button up thrown over top. If the button up sleeves were long, it was rare that he didn’t cuff them to his elbows at some point during the day. He wore trainers almost everywhere, only wearing what could be called ‘dress shoes’ when a company meeting mandated it. Tim’s attitude was usually about as laid back as his clothing, though he was known to push anyone’s buttons he might find amusing, and often got himself into trouble that way. It seemed just as many people hated him and loved him, and all his 5’8” glory. 

If Sasha and Tim were the trouble makers of the Archives, than Martin Blackwood was the peacekeeper. Everything about the man screamed ‘safe, warm, teddy bear’. He was a large man, coming in at 6’6” (nearly 6'7", though he wouldn't tell you that himself), and about half as broad as he was tall, which would have been intimidating if it weren’t for the roundness of his face showing shadows of forming smile lines, and the sweater vests he always wore. His wavy red hair was kept short, though it did cover the tops of his ears, and when the waves fell straight would begin to hang into his eyes. But the soft smattering of freckles surrounding warm cocoa eyes, and his near constant quiet offers of tea quickly banished anyone’s impression that this man would cause anyone harm. He was strong, often lifting Sasha into full bear hugs off the ground when she had a bad day, and wasn’t above lifting Tim up and away from other people when he was picking nerves a bit too harshly, but he was a sweet man, always available as a shoulder to cry on or a friend to listen and make a cuppa while you talked something out with him. 

And then there was Jonathan Sims. Jon Sims was nearly the antithesis of Martin. Where Martin was all roundness and softness, Jon was bony angles and harsh glares. Jon’s dark skin was darker than Sasha’s, and as often as he wore black slacks and dark tops, he nearly faded into the shadows of the Archive when you weren’t paying attention. His eyes were hazel, though you wouldn’t know it unless he were in the sunlight, the dark browns of his eyes taking over the golds and greens unless the light was just so. His face was often schooled into a stony neutral, devoid of any smile or frown lines, though there seemed to be a permanent furrow between his brows, that deepened when he was thinking or confused by something. His dark hair, kept somewhere between Tim and Martin’s lengths, was black, with streaks of grey scattered through it like someone had dropped ashes on his head. If the weather was particularly humid, Jon’s hair would start to gain a wave and curl at the ends, though he tried his best to ensure it didn’t happen (he was rarely successful).

One other thing about Jon was no one could be quite sure of his height. He walked slightly hunched over, carrying a cane with him at all times. One night when the Archival staff was at a bar, and Jon had gotten a bit too tipsy (with no small assistance from Tim, certainly), Sasha asked him why he needed it. Jon, who was slumped in his seat, had rolled his head to the side and looked at Sasha for a few moments before speaking.  
“I was a stupid kid. Very annoying, as you can no doubt guess. One day another boy at my school pushed me and when I fell, I hurt my back. It makes it hard to walk sometimes, so I carry the cane to help with the pain.”  
Sasha had looked horrified, and Tim cut in.

“What the hell happened?! How could you hurt it that badly?” He asked, sounding astounded and perhaps a bit too curious in his drunken state.

Jon simply shrugged, “I fell off the steps, and when I fell it fractured one of my vertebrae. It wasn’t bad enough to try to replace, and it didn’t paralyze me, thank god, but it does have its own repercussions.” 

Martin had cut them all off at that point, knowing Jon probably wouldn’t be comfortable discussing all that, and would rather avoid the fallout on Monday if any more were to be revealed. 

On Monday, when everyone returned to work, not much had changed. Everyone still gave each other a hard time, but no one questioned Jon’s cane, or why he occasionally left it in the office, where as other days he gripped it like a lifeline. On those days, the staff simply brought him work he could do from his desk, and Martin placed paracetamol next to his tea cups when he brought them. That didn’t stop the ribbing on Jon’s good days though. 

“Martin must be taller, just look at him!” Sasha would say, waving her hand at the two.

“No, you’re wrong, Jon just hunches. He’s obviously taller than Martin. You just don’t see it because he’s so skinny. I’m telling you, Jon is the taller one.” Tim would retort, not even glancing up from his phone as he text his partner of the week. 

“What does it matter?” Martin asked, trying not to laugh at his coworkers expense. “We’re about the same height, and much taller than the both of you, isn’t that the important part?”

Sasha let out a groaning sigh of disgust and disbelief. “No Martin, you’re missing the point! We have a ranking system! It goes you, Jon, Tim, me. That way we know who to delegate the tall work to! We can’t very well do that if _some_ people are wrong about the delegations.” She glanced at Tim, who simply held up his middle finger, a smirk pulling at his mouth as he continued typing. 

Martin giggled, quickly stifling it. “Sasha, I really don’t think that’s necessary. If Jon’s available, he can do it, and you know I never mind getting things down for you. I really don’t see how a couple of inches either way is going to affect that much.”

Tim finally sat up, placing his phone on the table, “It’s a point of _pride_, Martin, dear.” He said, his voice overly cordial. “Ms. James simply refuses to believe that there’s something she could be wrong about, and is having vapors over it.” 

Sasha shrieked in disbelief and mock offense, chucking one of the chips she had been eating at him. “How _dare_ you! I am _not_ having _vapors_! And I’m right and you know it, so just admit it!” 

Tim’s smirk only grew into a large smile as he caught the chip and ate it, all too pleased with himself. “Yes, Ms. James, whatever you say, dear.”

The arguments were a good way to pass the time, and Jon (much to Martin’s amusement) always stayed quiet on the subject, simply sitting back, watching the two like an interesting tennis game, occasionally a small smile creeping over his lips, though the other two never saw them. 

Many months later, so much would change. Sasha’s lovely laughter would never be heard ringing through the Archives at Tim’s stupid antics, Tim’s once gentle ribbings would turn harsh, then disappear altogether. Instead wandering through the Archives would be three new people.

Melanie King, her stormy grey eyes and braided blonde hair doing nothing to soften the anger that clung to her slight frame of 5’5” while she paced around the Archives. She wore nothing but graphic t-shirts, and ragged jeans covered in paint stains and rips, her boots clunking with each step, as if they were a half size too big for her. She wore little or no make up in her time before the Institute, but now she wore garish amounts of color, painting her lips in bright neons or bold dark colors that clashed with whatever her eye makeup was. Her own way of fighting back against Elias and the Institute. 

Basira Hussain, though stoic and distant, was as close to what could be called ‘professional’ at that point in the Archives. She wore little makeup, only a balm on her soft lips, and neutral colored hijabs pinned tightly in place, and long sleeved flowing tunics that fell to just above her knees, exposing the loose legged jeans and sturdy brown boots she wore. At some point, the neutral colored hijabs started being switched out for ones with more patterns and brighter colors, though she never went so bold that any of the other Institute staff could complain about her state of dress. Though if they tried, one unsettling glare from Basira’s rust brown, stone cold eyes, would have shut them right up. Her stature of 5’6” may not have made her very physically intimidating, but the knowledge of her history on the police force, and the steady, sure way she held herself as if she were marching into battle kept the whispers about her quiet, and far away from the Archives. 

Daisy Tonner’s appearance was probably the most offensive to the other members of the Institute. Her tshirts often proudly bore some form of profanity, her jeans stained and dirty, boots tracking traces of mud and dust everywhere she went. She very nearly always had some sort of plaster or bandage proudly on display, and smears of what everyone would have sworn to be blood on her arms and across her cheeks. Her jacket, in a similar shape to her jeans, loudly clicked with buttons with dividing opinions on them, statements about how much she hated her job, and one that out right said “Fuck You Elias Bouchard” in a bold, dark print, right on her lapel. Her short, dark hair was cut into a harsh crew cut, her bright blue eyes nearly transparent as she seemed to stare not at you, but through you when you spoke to her. She also stood at a solid 6’, and the slight strain of her jacket sleeves didn’t leave much to the imagination for how strong she was, or how easily she could take down anyone who got in her way. 

Jon, who had once looked at least somewhat professional (albeit slightly rumpled, as if he had slept in his clothes), now looked like he simply didn’t care. His black slacks and dark button downs were swapped for either old jeans or sweatpants and shirts that looked as though they hadn’t seen a washing machine in the past year, sometimes topped with sweaters that were obviously much too large for him and slid off one shoulder. His carefully maintained, though unruly hair, was now grown out, dragging the tops of his shoulders, tangled and unwashed, with a good bit more grey than there had been before. At some point he also began kicking his shoes off under his desk, curling into his desk chair, cane still propped up nearby, but his mismatched sock feet proudly on display. The bags under his eyes only got worse, and the once near flawless dark skin was now pockmarked in scars everywhere you could see it.

Martin still maintained his teddy bear softness, though his sweater vests and button ups underneath began sporting a bolder print, more colorful and outlandish than he would have ever considered wearing a year or two ago.

It was an odd day when it happened. Basira, Daisy, and Melanie were taking lunch in the small break room in the Archives, Jon standing and making tea (the first time they had seen him in almost two days), and Martin had walked down, awkwardly exchanging paperwork with Basira, when Melanie piped up.

“Martin, are you shorter than Jon?”

Martin and Jon froze, more tense than the three girls had ever seen them. It looked as though the two had turned to statues where they stood. Jon didn’t say a word, simply flicked off the kettle, grabbing his cane and quickly walking back into his office, solidly closing the door, locking it with a click that rang out in the quiet Archives. The three turned to Martin, who looked pale as death and close to tears. Carefully, he swallowed, clearing his throat and wiping quickly at his eyes.

“I don’t know.” He said finally, his voice soft and distant. “We’ve never actually checked.” 

Basira looked at Martin, searching his face, “Did something happen?” She asked, her tone not leaving room for escape, but still somehow gentle, like she didn’t want to hurt him. 

Martin swallowed once more, chuckling darkly to himself, “You could say that,” he muttered, rubbing at his face again, sighing deeply before sitting down and propping his head in his hands. He was silent for a few moments before he finally spoke up. “Sasha and Tim used to argue about who was the taller of the two of us. It was a little game they played. We haven’t…. No one’s brought it up since then. It just ...” He looked over at Melanie and smiled, though his smile was so sad, none of the reassurance he was hoping to translate actually went through. “It just took us by surprise is all. You didn’t do anything wrong, you couldn’t have known.” He looked down at his hands again before standing up, “I’m going to go back to work now. Keep an eye on Jon, I don’t think he’s eaten in awhile.” 

Before anyone could stop him, he was gone.

The Archives were quiet for the rest of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to scream at me in the comments or on Tumblr (archives-lofi-charm). I'm sure at some point I'll post something else with my poor babies, but this is my current brain child.


End file.
